The descriptive accounts of the battle of Antietam in U.S. history books, the graphic depiction of Vietnam battles in movies like Platoon and Hamburger Hill, the stark reality of real footage, and my father's horrific war stories all kindled my understanding of the ugly business of war. However, it was the words of a former student which really made me consider humanity's connection with the industry of war.
I was teaching at Montbello High School, a comprehensive high school located in the far northeast corridor of Denver, Colorado. The community was a typical middle class neighborhood of hard working parents, many of whom had attended the same high school as their children. I had been teaching at Montbello for what seemed like an eternity. Quite a few younger siblings of former students were gracing my classroom with their presence; however, I was not yet at the point where I was teaching former students' children. Nevertheless, the years had become a grind until finally an opportunity arrived to break the monotony. Grant money from a nonprofit organization and a local land owner was poured into the school to create a school within a school, The Twenty-First Century High Technology Academy. Over the course of a year, a new wing was added and the latest in technology was purchased, computers, audio enhancement systems, digital cameras and recorders, portable laptops, smart boards, high speed printers, all the technology needed to prepare students for the already present technological future. But what really made me ecstatic was not the fact that my students had to interview for slots, but that I was going to be able to loop with my students, I would move with them through four years of high school. These exceptionally bright children, the cream of the crop children,
would come to me like deer-caught-in-headlights freshmen and would leave me as competent ready-to-take-on-the- world seniors. And what a glorious experience it was. These children and their parents placed an enormous amount of trust in me as I guided them through a series of high school English courses with as much care as if they were my own children. The years unraveled like yarn as interactions
came to fruition through teaching and learning in courses such as introduction to literature, American literature, British literature, world literature, contemporary literature, and AP Literature and Composition.
No teacher could have asked for a better opportunity. I knew their academic strengths and weaknesses as well as I knew the back of my own hand. Each year I knew exactly where to start and where to end. I also learned their personalities well. I knew who was broodingly temperamental, extraordinarily extroverted, delightfully childlike, and annoyingly sagacious. I learned what they hoped and dreamed of for their futures. I got to know their parents, their siblings, their aunts, their uncles, and their grandparents as if they were my circle of family and friends.
The funniest experiences for me was watching them try on love for the first time. I watched romance flame into existence and fizzle into tears. Whether I wanted to be or not, I was an intimate part of their teenage years because they confided in me. I got to know more than any teacher could possibly know about their students and in some cases more than a teacher needed to know. From ninth grade to twelfth grade they were my seedlings. I watered them, saw that they got the right amount of sunlight, and proudly watched them blossom into young, mature men and women. Because I spent four years in confined spaces with these darlings, they did and always will occupy a special place in my heart and mind.
Part of the stipulation of the technology grant was that these cream of the crop students would be groomed for institutions of higher learning, specifically four year colleges and universities. They were expected to graduate with honors and to compete at the next academic level. However, several
students had their own ideas about what the next phase of their life would entail, and they were not about to be forced into that college-bound track.
Remi was one of those students. As a ninth grader Remi was an undersized, soft spoken fellow who had a smile bright enough to light up the darkest room. He had a good sense of humor and often wrote the funniest essays. One particular essay was a classification essay in which he grouped the types of cars people drive based on income. Of course his depiction of the "low-income hoopty" included such details as a mismatched door, a fire spitting muffler, a smashed rear end, and a trunk tied down with a rope. After wading through mounds of colorless compositions, I always looked forward to reading Remi's essays because they would, without a doubt, evoke laughter.
Unlike most of the other tech students, Remi knew from the moment he stepped into the halls of that high school exactly what the future held for him. He was an ROTC student for his entire four years of high school. He wanted to be a soldier and as it turned out he was quite good at it. His uniform was always clean and neat, his belt buckle reflected light blindingly, and his black shiny shoes were virtual mirrors. He relished being a soldier; it was in his blood. A few of the other students also wore ROTC uniforms. But most of them were doing it as extra curricula in order to gain elective credits but not Remi. He took pride in being a soldier; he took pride in his uniform and the presentation of himself. Each year the bars and brass on his lapels grew in number and color.
As a teacher I could never reconcile the idea of preparing these students to become life-long learners or to become soldiers. I understand that people who serve their country are honorable and definitely useful citizens. After all, they are protecting a way of life in this country and around the world. Nevertheless, I did not want any of my babies to go marching off to war. I suppose I was naïve and selfish. I had dreams of each one of them sitting in college classrooms across this country dazzling college professors with their wit and knowledge. I had dreams that each one would graduate with honors and go on to become doctors, lawyers, teachers, and entrepreneurs but not soldiers.
Eventually, the twelfth grade year rolled around, and it was particularly hard for me because I knew that a wonderful experience was about to come to an end. The year was filled with the usual chaotic occurrences: planning senior prom, taking class pictures, purchasing class rings, signing yearbooks, skipping class on senior ditch day, and announcing college acceptance and scholarships. Some of the students were going to attend local colleges and universities, others were going to attend out of state colleges and universities, and several, like Remi, were going to join the military.
Finally graduation occurred, and I did not attend. I just could not bring myself to say goodbye to the
students. They were my kids and they were going out into the world. Saying goodbye would have been too emotional for me. I have never been a person to enjoy so-longs, especially when relationships had been established. No, I chose not to attend because I knew I would not have been able to control my emotional breakdown. For four years I had been an unflappable stalwart, never losing my cool when someone had let the huge German Shepherd into the classroom, laughing when I left the class for a moment and returned to find no one there, and pretending to be upset when someone took a bite out of my breakfast muffin which was on my desk. I had remained undaunted in the face of a thousand pranks, and I was not about to breakdown in the middle of pomp and circumstance. It all worked out for the best though; the students all came back at one time or another during the following school year to say their goodbyes.
I would be in the middle of teaching a lesson and see a smiling face peering through the glass of the door, or I would be sitting at my desk during my planning time and look up to see one of them bounding through the doorway. I would be walking down the hallway and hear someone yell, "Ms. Ross! It’s me. Ms. Ross!" I would be sitting in the lunchroom and suddenly someone sneaks up behind me and throws their arms around me. Yes, they came back to say hello, to say thank you, to say college is exactly as you said it would be, and to say that life is good and that they were enjoying every minute of it.
One day during my planning time I was sitting at my desk grading papers and an unusually heavy voice startled me; I looked up and there stood Remi. He was no longer my little Remi, the smallest boy in class. He had big broad shoulders and stout arms; his chest strained to be released from his clothing, a well-fitted green uniform. Only this time it was not a school ROTC uniform; it was an official United States of America army uniform, dark green jacket and pants, light green shirt, dark green tie, black shiny shoes, and a brass belt buckle reflecting every light ray. Taken aback by the transformation, I stood from my desk, " Wow! look at you. You are a young man now. I remember when you were just a little ninth grader no taller than this." I extended my hand to just above my waist. " And now you're a man. Look at you." He laughed; we hugged and talked about the days past. He then told me about basic training and explained that he was being shipped out to Iraq in about two weeks. The country was then engaged in a war to rid the world of Hussein's "weapons of mass destruction", and he was going to be a part of the campaign. In fact he had been well-trained to be a part of the campaign.
He told me he was going to make a career of it, and that he had it all planned out. He would still be young enough to start a second career when he retired from the military. He also planned to attend school while he was enlisted because the government would monetarily assist a soldier in his or her educational endeavors. We talked a bit more about other students. The ones he had ran into and the ones who had come back to see me. Eventually our conversation ended, but I could not bring myself to say goodbye. I felt sad knowing that he was going off to war. I said the only thing I could think to say and was very sincere about it. I told him to be careful because war is dirty business. He nodded in agreement and responded matter-of-factly, " I know, but they taught me how to kill, Ms. Ross." I was taken aback and the only thing I could do was repeat myself, "You still have to be careful." We embraced and he left. However, his words stayed with me and continue to echo through my mind even unto this day. Whenever I watch the national news report conflict around the world, I hear those words. Whenever a television show is doing a feature piece on a disfigured or maimed soldier, I hear those words. When America celebrates Veteran's Day, I hear those words. When the local news pays homage to fallen heroes, I hear those words. I think those words will forever be with me because war is such an inevitable circumstance, and unfortunately some children grow up to be players in that circumstance.
Until Remi's words I had only thought of war as an entity unto itself, a big dirty machine that powered itself. Once those words were spoken, I realized the connection between war and mankind. Gone was the small, soft spoken boy with a wry sense of humor. Standing in his shoes was a young man capable of annihilating an enemy. The broad infectious smile of a puny, ninth grader was replaced by the stern confident face of a muscled, young man poised to perform a duty that may be unclean and messy but poised to perform it nevertheless. Remi's words remind me, sadly, what humanity is capable of becoming. The nature of mankind can be rooted in baseness because the very necessity of war speaks to greed, selfishness, and narrow mindedness, whether it be for a commodity like oil, for ethnic reasons, for religion, or simply for the pride of being a defender of one's country. I honestly believe that Remi's reason for joining the military was rooted in the latter. However, the reason does not really matter. All that matters is that he was now a part of that calamity known as war, a machination fueled by the power and energy of mankind. I suppose, Remi, like many young men and women, knew and understood this obvious truth early on. He entered the ninth grade knowing that he wanted to be a soldier. He understood that he could be a part of what fuels the beast.
Sometimes I wonder if the words which I spoke to Remi that day, "War is dirty business," echo through his mind. I wonder if my words stayed with him; for his words have surely haunted me.
